


Old Habits Die Hard

by Xyriath



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Overwatch Fusion, Depression, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: It's been years since Overwatch was disbanded, but Ed fully intends to seize onto this new opportunity to do some good again.But there's one person he knows they can't re-form their organization without.





	Old Habits Die Hard

**Author's Note:**

> My RoyEd Gift Exchange fic for green-red-sun! I hope you enjoy!

Ed squinted in the semi-darkness.  He couldn’t seem to get a good read on the room at all; he wondered if it was just that he wasn’t used to it, having come in from the bright sunlight, and its inhabitant was.  He had spent most of the past long while in the dark, if the rumors were to be believed.

Personally, Ed thought it was just because Roy Mustang was a melodramatic motherfucker.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to turn on a light or two every once in a while,” Ed drawled, crossing his arms, hip resting in the doorway as he took in what information he could ahead of him.  The gleam of what little light that snuck into the room reflected off the glass in Roy’s hand, filled with something that definitely wasn’t water.

Silence settled for a few moments.

“And would it kill you,” croaked a voice, hoarse but still recognizable after all these years, “to knock every once in a while?”

The words sent his heart rocketing up to somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.  He hadn’t expected this, the rush of nostalgia and intimacy and _longing_ that the familiar deep voice would evoke in him.  Tired, yes.  Older, definitely.

But still Roy.

“I know you,” Ed shot back, trying to keep his voice light, as he stepped forward a little.  His eyes were adjusting, finally, and he caught the barest outline of the form in front of him.  He sat in a chair, his back to Ed—to the door—and it was that small detail that emphasized exactly how _wrong_ this situation was.  “You wouldn’t’ve answered.  ‘Specially if you’d realized it was me.”

A gleam again, and Ed’s eyes locked onto the glass as it was set down on the stacked crates that served as a side table.  Roy still didn’t turn around.

“There’s a reason for that, Edward,” Roy said quietly.  “I know why you’re here.  But it’s a lost cause.  There’s a reason I didn’t respond.”

Respond.   _Respond._  So—

“You heard about the recall, then,” Ed breathed, his hope soaring despite Roy’s words.  “You know that we’re reforming.  You still have the medallion.  There’s a reason for _that_ , too.”

Ed’s vision had grown used enough to the darkness now that he caught Roy’s shoulders tense, and for a moment, he thought he had hit his mark.

But then Roy stood, slowly, and the obvious pain in the motion quickly dashed those hopes into pieces.

“I kept it so I would know, when a recall inevitably happened.  Because I knew that when it did, someone would end up here.  I just didn’t think they’d stoop so low as to send you.”

The words struck him as painfully as a blow across the face would have, so much so that Ed found himself stunned, even if just momentarily, into silence.

Roy took that moment to turn, and the sight dried up any words that Ed might have been able to recover.

Ed knew Roy had been injured in the explosion on Gibraltar.  He had never believed that Roy was dead, of course, as so many of the rumors had whispered, but no one survived something like that unscathed.

Still, he hadn’t expected the long, jagged scar running up Roy’s jaw, up the left side of his face, and disappearing under a black eyepatch.  The other eye stared back at him, dark and accusing.

But more than the scars were the motions, the demeanor, the posture.  Ed had seen Roy confident, yes, but he had also seen him so many other ways.  Sleepy and adorable.  Frustrated and tired.  Relaxed and content.  Vulnerable and afraid.

But never before had Ed seen Roy Mustang so… broken.

“Not so pretty anymore, am I?” he asked, voice low and chilly.

Ed’s hands tightened into fists, and he could feel himself bristling.  The first words had wounded, but this?  This was just salt in them.

“If you think that’s all I cared about,” Ed spat back, “then you never knew a single fucking thing about me, did you?  You think I just loved you for your _looks_ , Roy?  No.”  He lifted his hands to his face, rubbing at it, taking a few deep breaths to keep his temper from spilling over.  “I loved you for so much fuckin’ more than that.  I _love_ you ‘cause you’re—you’re smart, and funny, and can keep up banter with me more than anyone else I’ve ever met.  Because you’re a good leader, and not just that, you’re good to your _people._ ”

The bitter laugh from Roy’s lips was unlike any sound Ed had heard him make before this, and it startled him into momentary silence.

“So you think,” Roy snapped.  “You don’t even know the _half_ of it, Ed, some of the things I let happen on my watch—”

“Then _tell me!_ ”  Ed’s voice had risen to near shouting, but with desperation more than anger now.  “Just—goddamn, Roy, just talk to me about this.  I’m here for you.  I’ll _always_ be here—”

“And what if I don’t want you here, Ed?” Roy interrupted, expression hard.  “I know what you’re doing.  I know that Overwatch wants me back, but I didn’t think they’d be desperate enough to ask you to come.  To ask you to _manipulate_ me, to use my feelings—to use what we had—”

“Fuck you!” Ed spat.  “They didn’t send me, you asshole!  I found you, because I wanted to see you, because I _missed_ you, because I always knew that you were alive!  I’m not here for Overwatch; I’m here for _us!_ ”

 _That_ silenced Roy, and Ed could see the genuine shock flicker across his face.  The silence stretched between them for a few moments, and Ed thought, for a split second, that Roy was about to yell again.

But his face broke into a tired smile, and then he turned away.

“How?” he asked, sinking back down into his chair, away from Ed.  This time, Ed followed, stepping around the crates to face him.  “Did you find me, I mean.  Here I thought I was off the grid.”

Ed stiffened slightly at that, glancing away.  He wasn’t proud of it.

“You’re runnin’ in my old employer’s backyard,” he said, voice quiet.  “You’ve gone full-on vigilante.  The crime rate’s taken a nosedive since you started this.  You really think they haven’t noticed you?”

Ed glanced back in time to see Roy’s eyebrows furrow, then shoot up.  “ _Vishkar?_  They—I thought you cut ties with them, after…”

“Mostly, yeah.”  Ed looked away again.  “But I still got a couple favors left.  And they’ve noticed you; don’t act surprised about that.  You’re the only one doin’ the cleaning up that they promised would happen.”

Roy’s face twisted with dislike; he had never personally had much contact with Vishkar, but he had heard enough from Ed to be aware of their… conflicts.  Ed had thought, orphan missing two limbs recruited off the streets of Iran, that they would be able to save the world with the technology they had pioneered.  Unfortunately, he had later learned that they were really only interested in saving their bottom line.

Roy didn’t seem to have realized that his vigilante work had caught their attention.  Strange, of course; not like Roy at all.  But then again, given what Roy seemed to think of himself right now, some sort of nobody languishing in obscurity, perhaps understandable.

But even in self-imposed exile, Roy Mustang would never have been able to sit still when there were injustices to be corrected, wrongs to be righted.  And it was that fact that gave Ed hope there might be a chance.

“I didn’t even tell Overwatch I was comin’, you know,” Ed continued, voice gentling.  “They think I’m following up on a Talon lead.  I didn’t want them to be involved in this.  Because it’s just you and me.”

Ed stepped forward again, kneeling to be on eye level with Roy, and he had misjudged his distance in the dark, apparently, because they were a lot closer than he had planned.  “I mean it, Roy.”

Roy inhaled softly, and one dark eye met Ed’s.  For a moment, just a moment, Ed _saw_ something there.  Relief?  Hope?  Longing?  And something more, too; something darker, more urgent.

And as Roy leaned in, torturously slowly, Ed did as well, their breaths mingling, Roy so close that Ed could _taste_ him—

But Roy jerked back with a gasp, sending Ed jumping about a foot into the air at the sudden motion.  His head snapped up as he watched Roy, confusion furrowing his face, but this time, Roy refused to meet his eyes.

“Go,” he said, voice flat and emotionless.  “Now.”

Ed’s breath caught in his chest.

“Roy—”

“I said _now_ ,” he snapped, grip tightening on the arms of the chair.  “And don’t come back.”

Numbness only gave way to anger, bright and hot once again.  Al would have said that his conflict resolution skills needed some work.  Ed would have said that his conflict initiation skills were more important; let someone _else_ sort that shit out.

“This is bullshit and you _know_ it,” he spat.  “If you feel so bad about what happened, you’re not gonna make it any better by sitting around and moping, asshole.  You’re gonna make it better by actually going out and doing things.  Fixing things.   _Helping_ people.  You don’t get redemption by making yourself suffer.  You get redemption by stopping the suffering of other people.  And _that’s_ what I’m inviting you to come do!”

But Roy made no response, instead keeping his head turned away from Ed, staring resolutely at the wall.

Ed whirled, storming towards the door in frustration.  It rattled behind him so hard he was vaguely surprised it didn’t fall off.

He wasn’t giving up, not by a long shot, but he couldn’t stand seeing Roy like this.  He needed a few moments, maybe even a day or two.  He could come up with better arguments, talk Roy around.  He _knew_ Roy, and knew that Roy would wallow until he drank himself to death if someone didn’t do something about it.

Ed had become so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the sound of footsteps on the rooftop above him.

It was a miracle that Ed barely managed to get his shield up in time.  The bullets ricocheted off the impenetrable blue force field that expanded from his hands; the solidification of light, Ed had always argued, was one of the most important advancements of this century, and he was the best at using it in the world.

But being the best in the world only did so much when you had people coming at you from three directions.

 _Talon,_ Ed thought fiercely, backing immediately away from the door.  Lure them away from Roy; maybe they wouldn’t realize…

But no, that was bullshit, and Ed knew it.  They had targeted Ed specifically.  They had followed him, knowing that he must be looking for something—or someone—important.

And Ed had led them straight to Roy.

“Fuck,” he hissed, as a spray of cracks scattered across his barrier; enough bullets and it would shatter.  He cut his losses, reshaping the light instinctively into a blade along his prosthetic right hand.

But three—no, four; some fucker had joined in right after the ambush—on one, and Ed knew he didn’t have a chance.

He brought it back down to three on one, eventually, running one of the men through.  A few scattered screams sounded from around him, but down here in the slums, no one was going to call any authorities, not until it was too late to do anything about it.

A foot connected with the side of his right knee, and it buckled, pain shooting through his flesh leg.  He let out a yelp of—of pain, of alarm, of _terror_ , fumbling to bring his barrier back up, but the guns flashed from so many sides, and there was no way—

A crackling sounded through the air, and for a moment, Ed thought that lightning had struck right next to him.  Screams of pain surrounded him, the stench of burning flesh and hair assaulting his nose, and he twisted frantically, wondering what the hell—

And as he finally managed to shove himself to his feet, scrambling away from the sight of three charred bodies smoking in front of him, he caught sight of a familiar form.

Roy Mustang stood in the middle of his doorway, ragged coat flapping with the force of the three blasts of flame he had just sent rushing past Ed.  For a moment, Ed saw something, something cold and hard and efficient.  Something _alive._

“Are you all right?” he asked, low and urgent, as he turned to Ed.  The expression from before was gone, and now one of only concern and fear remained.  Hands gripped Ed’s shoulders, and Ed could see the familiar silver bands wrapped around Roy’s wrists, the shiny material of the protective gloves.

He had kept the flamethrowers, too.  In all the reports Ed had heard of this “mysterious” vigilante, none had mentioned _that._  Ed had figured Roy had thrown them out, wanting to distance himself as much from his old life as he could.

But he had kept them.  He had kept his weapons, and he had kept his communicator.  Hope surged through Ed once again.

Instead of answering, he launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Roy’s neck and kissing him desperately.

He half expected to be pushed away, thrown back, pulled off.  But he could _feel_ Roy melt underneath him, and then those arms had hooked around Ed’s waist, yanking him close, as Roy kissed him with enough desperation to match.

Their lips pressed against each other with a familiarity born from years of intimacy and a yearning borne from years of being apart.  Ed recognized the taste of Roy in an instant, licking into his mouth, the two of them twining around each other for several long, blissful moments, ignoring the carnage around them.

And then they pulled back, breaths coming heavily, with eyes for no one but each other.

“So that’s a yes,” Roy breathed, sounding dazed, almost awestruck.  “To… to you being all right, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Ed croaked back, a slow grin spreading across his face.  “Yeah, that’s a yes.”

His hands settled on Roy’s waist, and he stepped a little closer yet again.

“So… how about you?” he asked quietly.  “You’re not done with this, Roy.  You know you’re not.”

Roy closed his eyes, lifting his hands to his face and sighing.  A heartbeat, then two, but each one seemed to take years.

“Give me a moment,” he finally said, tone resigned, “to get my things.  I’ll be back out.”

Relief washed over Ed, so palpable that his knees almost collapsed again.  His grip tightened before he realized that was counterproductive to his goals.

“Okay,” he breathed, releasing Roy and stepping back.  “Okay.  I’ll wait.”

Roy offered him a sad, tired smile before ducking back into the shack.

Ed retreated back into a corner, keeping a careful eye out.  He knew they would be gone before the authorities showed up—he knew how these things went; it would probably be another hour, at least—but just in case, he wanted to be ready.

But five minutes turned into ten, which turned into fifteen, and Ed’s paranoia ramped up with every ticking second.

After twenty minutes, Ed finally slipped back inside, eyes adjusting to the darkness once again.

The living space had been cleared out, as Roy had said, but as the gloom became clearer, Ed realized that along with the few things that had seemed necessary, Roy was nowhere to be found, either.

And in the back of the single room, a door dangled open on its hinges, a rectangle of light leading to an exit that Ed hadn’t even known existed.

Roy had played Ed like a goddamn fiddle.  He was gone.

—

Ed made his way back to the base on Gibraltar, numb.

He could have called, gotten himself a direct shuttle there, but that would involve an explanation of why he had been in India in the first place.  It would involve admitting that he had failed.  It was a masochistic sort of punishment, grabbing the cheapest flights that ran the longest.

Connecting flight.  Layover.  Nap in the airport.  Red-eye.  Jetlag.  Another connecting flight.  More jetlag.

Forty-eight hours, and a boat to the island.

(The locals appreciated the business and kept their mouths shut.  Ed tipped the woman well.)

Ed sat, for quite some time, on one of the large boulders bordering the narrow path that led up to the watchpoint.  As the only entrance from sea level, they would see him coming.  They would have questions.  Ed didn’t want to face them.

Waves sploshed against the beach behind him, the sound of another boat landing on the shore.  Ed frowned.  Had he forgotten something?

But as he turned, he spotted two forms: one of the local, piloting the boat, and another stepping out of the side, long, ragged coat flapping in the beach wind.

The weight that had settled on Ed’s chest over the past two days seemed to evaporate, fluttering away with that breeze, and he suddenly realized that he could breathe again.

The figure stepped forward, then again, and again—

“You came back,” was all Ed could breathe before a pair of arms swept him up in an embrace yet again.

“I did,” Roy murmured into his ear, voice cracked with pain and longing and fear, but with a steady backbone of something Ed hadn’t heard yet.

Hope.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Ed admitted, voice low and raw, as Roy buried his face in Ed’s neck.

“You know I couldn’t live with myself for letting that happen,” Roy murmured, tugging Ed closer for one final squeeze before pulling away—everything except their linked hands.  “And… I realized that you were right.”

Ed swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry at the idea that he had been the one to coax Roy back here.  That if things went wrong again, that if Roy was caught in the crossfire, it would be Ed’s fault.

So Ed wasn’t going to let that happen.

He squeezed Roy’s hand, tilting his chin up to meet his eye, practically vibrating with anticipation and exhilaration.

“Are you ready?”

Roy closed his eye, then nodded.  “Yes.”

Hands linked, they turned and headed up the narrow beach path.

Together.


End file.
